LIEUTENANT ALBERT WERPER had only the prestige of the name
he had dishonored to thank for his narrow escape from being
cashiered. At first he had been humbly thankful, too, that they had
sent him to this God-forsaken Congo post instead of
court-martialing him, as he had so justly deserved; but now six
months of the monotony, the frightful isolation and the loneliness
had wrought a change. The young man brooded continually over his
fate. His days were filled with morbid self-pity, which eventually
engendered in his weak and vacillating mind a hatred for those who
had sent him here-for the very men he had at first inwardly thanked
for saving him from the ignominy of degradation.
He regretted the gay life of Brussels as he never had
regretted the sins which had snatched him from that gayest of
capitals, and as the days passed he came to center his resentment
upon the representative in Congo land of the authority which had
exiled him-his captain and immediate superior.
This officer was a cold, taciturn man, inspiring little
love in those directly beneath him, yet respected and feared by the
black soldiers of his little command.
Werper was accustomed to sit for hours glaring at his
superior as the two sat upon the veranda of their common quarters,
smoking their evening cigarets in a silence which neither seemed
desirous of breaking. The senseless hatred of the lieutenant grew
at last into a form of mania. The captain's natural taciturnity he
distorted into a studied attempt to insult him because of his past
shortcomings. He imagined that his superior held him in contempt,
and so he chafed and fumed inwardly until one evening his madness
became suddenly homicidal. He fingered the butt of the revolver at
his hip, his eyes narrowed and his brows contracted. At last he
spoke.
"You have insulted me for the last time!" he cried,
springing to his feet. "I am an officer and a gentleman, and I
shall put up with it no longer without an accounting from you, you
pig."
The captain, an expression of surprise upon his features,
turned toward his junior. He had seen men before with the jungle
madness upon them-the madness of solitude and unrestrained
brooding, and perhaps a touch of fever.
He rose and extended his hand to lay it upon the other's
shoulder. Quiet words of counsel were upon his lips; but they were
never spoken. Werper construed his superior's action into an
attempt to close with him. His revolver was on a level with the
captain's heart, and the latter had taken but a step when Werper
pulled the trigger. Without a moan the man sank to the rough
planking of the veranda, and as he fell the mists that had clouded
Werper's brain lifted, so that he saw himself and the deed that he
had done in the same light that those who must judge him would see
them.
He heard excited exclamations from the quarters of the
soldiers and he heard men running in his direction. They would
seize him, and if they didn't kill him they would take him down the
Congo to a point where a properly ordered military tribunal would
do so just as effectively, though in a more regular manner.
Werper had no desire to die. Never before had he so yearned
for life as in this moment that he had so effectively forfeited his
right to live. The men were nearing him. What was he to do? He
glanced about as though searching for the tangible form of a
legitimate excuse for his crime; but he could find only the body of
the man he had so causelessly shot down.
In despair, he turned and fled from the oncoming soldiery.
Across the compound he ran, his revolver still clutched tightly in
his hand. At the gates a sentry halted him. Werper did not pause to
parley or to exert the influence of his commission - he merely
raised his weapon and shot down the innocent black. A moment later
the fugitive had torn open the gates and vanished into the
blackness of the jungle, but not before he had transferred the
rifle and ammunition belts of the dead sentry to his own person.
All that night Werper fled farther and farther into the
heart of the wilderness. Now and again the voice of a lion brought
him to a listening halt; but with cocked and ready rifle he pushed
ahead again, more fearful of the human huntsmen in his rear than of
the wild carnivora ahead.
Dawn came at last, but still the man plodded on. All sense
of hunger and fatigue were lost in the terrors of contemplated
capture. He could think only of escape. He dared not pause to rest
or eat until there was no further danger from pursuit, and so he
staggered on until at last he fell and could rise no more. How long
he had fled he did not know, or try to know. When he could flee no
longer the knowledge that he had reached his limit was hidden from
him in the unconsciousness of utter exhaustion.
And thus it was that Achmet Zek, the Arab, found him.
Achmet's followers were for running a spear through the body of
their hereditary enemy; but Achmet would have it otherwise. First
he would question the Belgian. It were easier to question a man
first and kill him afterward, than kill him first and then question
him.
So he had Lieutenant Albert Werper carried to his own tent,
and there slaves administered wine and food in small quantities
until at last the prisoner regained consciousness. As he opened his
eyes he saw the faces of strange black men about him, and just
outside the tent the figure of an Arab. Nowhere was the uniform of
his soldiers to be seen.
The Arab turned and seeing the open eyes of the prisoner
upon him, entered the tent.
"I am Achmet Zek," he announced. "Who are you, and what
were you doing in my country? Where are your soldiers?"
Achmet Zek! Werper's eyes went wide, and his heart sank. He
was in the clutches of the most notorious of cut-throats - a hater
of all Europeans, especially those who wore the uniform of Belgium.
For years the military forces of Belgian Congo had waged a
fruitless war upon this man and his followers - a war in which
quarter had never been asked nor expected by either side.
But presently in the very hatred of the man for Belgians,
Werper saw a faint ray of hope for himself. He, too, was an outcast
and an outlaw. So far, at least, they possessed a common interest,
and Werper decided to play upon it for all that it might yield.
"I have heard of you," he replied, "and was searching for
you. My people have turned against me. I hate them. Even now their
soldiers are searching for me, to kill me. I knew that you would
protect me from them, for you, too, hate them. In return I will
take service with you. I am a trained soldier. I can fight, and
your enemies are my enemies."
Achmet Zek eyed the European in silence. In his mind he
revolved many thoughts, chief among which was that the unbeliever
lied. Of course there was the chance that he did not lie, and if he
told the truth then his proposition was one well worthy of
consideration, since fighting men were never over plentiful -
especially white men with the training and knowledge of military
matters that a European officer must possess.
Achmet Zek scowled and Werper's heart sank; but Werper did
not know Achmet Zek, who was quite apt to scowl where another would
smile, and smile where another would scowl.
"And if you have lied to me," said Achmet Zek, "I will kill
you at any time. What return, other than your life, do you expect
for your services?"
"My keep only, at first," replied Werper. "Later, if I am
worth more, we can easily reach an understanding." Werper's only
desire at the moment was to preserve his life. And so the agreement
was reached and Lieutenant Albert Werper became a member of the
ivory and slave raiding band of the notorious Achmet Zek.
For months the renegade Belgian rode with the savage
raider. He fought with a savage abandon, and a vicious cruelty
fully equal to that of his fellow desperadoes. Achmet Zek watched
his recruit with eagle eye, and with a growing satisfaction which
finally found expression in a greater confidence in the man, and
resulted in an increased independence of action for Werper.
Achmet Zek took the Belgian into his confidence to a great
extent, and at last unfolded to him a pet scheme which the Arab had
long fostered, but which he never had found an opportunity to
effect. With the aid of a European, however, the thing might be
easily accomplished. He sounded Werper.
"You have heard of the man men call Tarzan?" he asked.
Werper nodded. "I have heard of him; but I do not know
him."
"But for him we might carry on our 'trading' in safety and
with great profit," continued the Arab. "For years he has fought
us, driving us from the richest part of the country, harassing us,
and arming the natives that they may repel us when we come to
'trade.' He is very rich. If we could find some way to make him pay
us many pieces of gold we should not only be avenged upon him; but
repaid for much that he has prevented us from winning from the
natives under his protection."
Werper withdrew a cigaret from a jeweled case and lighted
it.
"And you have a plan to make him pay?" he asked.
"He has a wife," replied Achmet Zek, "whom men say is very
beautiful. She would bring a great price farther north, if we found
it too difficult to collect ransom money from this Tarzan."
Werper bent his head in thought. Achmet Zek stood awaiting
his reply. What good remained in Albert Werper revolted at the
thought of selling a white woman into the slavery and degradation
of a Moslem harem. He looked up at Achmet Zek. He saw the Arab's
eyes narrow, and he guessed that the other had sensed his
antagonism to the plan. What would it mean to Werper to refuse? His
life lay in the hands of this semi-barbarian, who esteemed the life
of an unbeliever less highly than that of a dog. Werper loved life.
What was this woman to him, anyway? She was a European, doubtless,
a member of organized society. He was an outcast. The hand of every
white man was against him. She was his natural enemy, and if he
refused to lend himself to her undoing, Achmet Zek would have him
killed.
"You hesitate," murmured the Arab.
"I was but weighing the chances of success," lied Werper,
"and my reward. As a European I can gain admittance to their home
and table. You have no other with you who could do so much. The
risk will be great. I should be well paid, Achmet Zek."
A smile of relief passed over the raider's face.
"Well said, Werper," and Achmet Zek slapped his lieutenant
upon the shoulder. "You should be well paid and you shall. Now let
us sit together and plan how best the thing may be done," and the
two men squatted upon a soft rug beneath the faded silks of
Achmet's once gorgeous tent, and talked together in low voices well
into the night. Both were tall and bearded, and the exposure to sun
and wind had given an almost Arab hue to the European's complexion.
In every detail of dress, too, he copied the fashions of his chief,
so that outwardly he was as much an Arab as the other. It was late
when he arose and retired to his own tent.
The following day Werper spent in overhauling his Belgian
uniform, removing from it every vestige of evidence that might
indicate its military purposes. From a heterogeneous collection of
loot, Achmet Zek procured a pith helmet and a European saddle, and
from his black slaves and followers a party of porters, askaris and
tent boys to make up a modest safari for a big game hunter. At the
head of this party Werper set out from camp.
